Part Three: Empty Chairs and Empty Tables

I returned home from a trip last weekend.  The trip had been planned and scheduled a year ago.  Whenever we would return home from a travel event there would be a big poster hanging in the kitchen window:  “Welcome Home, Dad and Mom” or in these last four years, “Welcome Home, Dad and Uncle John,” signed “Love, Rachel.”  There would be milk and goodies in the fridge, bread in the cupboard, normally enough food to last a week!  

There was no sign in the window welcoming me home last weekend, no milk or goodies in the fridge, no bread in the cupboard,  Three months have passed since we lost Rachel.  What I missed wasn’t the milk or the bread.  I missed Rachel!  Always will!  There is no way to fill the empty chair, that empty table, this empty place in me.

My focus, however, must now be on what I do have and those I love just as deeply as I loved my Rachel.   I have my son Paul and his wife Helen (and their sons, Austin and Nick).  Helen took me to the airport and wished me safe journey.  Paul picked me up at the airport on my return and welcomed me home.  I have my son Luke and his wife Kim (and their children, Ethan and Eleni). Paul and  Luke call frequently (and we text regularly).   By the way, Luke had a scheduled check-up at the Mayo Clinic in Phoenix, AZ while I was away.  No cancer!  I have Katie and her husband Liam over in England and two beautiful great granddaughters.  There is Matt and Emily and their two beautiful girls.  I have siblings.  I have very special friends.  I’m am a fortunate father, grandfather, great grandfather, brother, and friend. 

Life tumbles in and it’s tough to handle.  But life goes on even at the age of 82. As the great philosopher, Dr. Seuss, says:  “Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple.”  He goes on to say:  “You have brains in your head.  You have feet in your shoes.  You can steer yourself any direction you choose.  You’re on your own.  And you know what you know.  And YOU are the one who’ll decide where to go…”

Part Two: Empty Chairs, Empty Tables

Elisabeth Kubler-Ross introduced the “five stages of grief” in her book On Death and Dying in 1969.  The five stages are:

Denial:  “This can’t be happening to me.”

Anger:  “Why is this happening?  Who is to blame?

Bargaining:  “Make this not happen, and in return I will….”

Depression:  “I’m too sad to do anything.”

Acceptance:  “I’m at peace with what happened.”

Not everyone goes through these stages. Kuber-Ross said, “They were never meant to help tuck messy emotions into neat packages.”  They are simply responses to loss that many people have experienced.  Our grieving is always individual.

The loss of a loved one affects each of us in different ways. The important thing to remember is that almost anything you experience in the early stages of grief is normal—including feeling like you’re living a bad dream, or going crazy, or questioning your faith or spiritual beliefs.

The most universal symptom of grief is sadness.  Feelings of emptiness, despair, an abundance of tears, and feeling emotionally unstable, are typical.  Grief also involves physical problems—fatigue, lack of appetite, weight loss, etc.  All of these reactions are natural.  We will heal in time….

But, in the meantime, there is GRIEF.  There is an empty chair in my Garden Room.  Another chair at the dining room table is empty now.  Every photo of my daughter Rachel reminds me of what was and is no more.  That’s what everyone who has lost a loved one is handling within.  Our task is to be aware of that person’s loss, to respect it, and share in it if we can.  

Part One: Empty Chairs, Empty Tables

There are empty chairs and empty tables in my heart, in my life, and in my home.  It happens!  Death is a reality!  Death is, in a very real sense, our shared destiny.  As a parish pastor for over 50-plus years I have sat with families as they experienced this reality. I have officiated at hundreds of funerals!  I have personal experience:  the deaths of  cherished friends, grandparents, parents, in-laws, my sister, my wife of fifty-seven years (four years ago) and most recently my fifty-seven year old daughter, Rachel.  The scripture boasts, “O Death, where is thy sting?” Well, I can assure you, it has not lost its sting!  When Death comes to those we love, and even to those we do not know, it affects us.  

No man is an island,

Entire of itself.

Each is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less,

As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manor of thine own

Or of thine friend’s were.

Each man’s death diminishes me,

For I am involved in mankind.

Therefore, send not to know 

For whom the bell tolls,

It tolls for thee. 

Somehow, as John Donne says, the death of any person “diminishes me.” If this is so, then what happens when it is someone we know, love, and cherish?  We are “reduced, depleted, downsized, dented, knocked down, modified, shrunk, and compressed.”  That's what "diminish" means.

Do not suggest to anyone enduring grief that Death has no sting to it! And those who are grieving should not attempt to cover up the sting!  

Life and Love Tumbles In

 I am grieving today with and for my grandson who lost a close high school friend in an accident last weekend.  I’m also thinking of my granddaughter who experienced recently the sudden death of a friend.  I grieve not only their loss, but remember, and grieve still, over the death of my own high school friend from leukemia some sixty-eight years ago.  My suspicion is that each of us in our youth experienced the death of a friend.  

The death of a friend is a traumatic experience for a young person (and for old people, too)..  It leaves an indelible mark on our spirit.  It hurts. It makes us angry. It makes us sad. It makes us cry.  It raises all kinds of questions about Life, the existence of God (Love) in the world, and a host of other questions for which we never seem to find answers.

Rilke wrote that we should “be patient toward all that is unsolved in our heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue.  Do not seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them.  And the point is to live everything.  Live the questions now.  Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

I’ve lived into that “distant day” now and I still do not have an answer (after 68 years) for why my high school friend, Art, died at the age of 15 from leukemia!  I still “live the question(s) now.”  I do not know why my grandson’s friend died in that accident.  I do not know why the children of Gaza have to die of starvation in a world of plenty.

Is it really possible to grieve without having loved? Perhaps some “distant day” I shall live into the answer.

Easter Language

 How do we see ourselves, our neighbors, and the future of our world?  Do we speak the language of despair and complaint as in the following statement?

“Planet Earth’s on a path of obliteration.

And I refuse to believe that

we can help humankind survive self-destruction.

I realize this may be a shock, but

our diverse and inclusive global society can live in harmony

is a lie.  The reality is that

“Humans are incapable of caring for each other & planet Earth”

within three decades, global warming will destroy our planet.

I do not concede, that 

planet Earth and civilization can be saved.

in the future,

ongoing senseless and brutal world wars will be inevitable.

No longer can it be said, that

you and I will find a way to reach for the stars and beyond.

It will be evident, that

humans are selfish, indifferent and greedy.

It is foolish to presume, that 

There is Hope (Credit:  Tom Vassos)

Or do we see ourselves, our neighbors, and the future of our world by  reading the above statement backwards?  Do we speak the language of an Easter people—the language of faith and hope?

The Vacation

 THE VACATION (“an extended period of leisure and recreation, especially one spent away from home or in traveling”) for my brother and me was booked in November 2024—a 12-day cruise to the Southern Caribbean—visiting the islands of St. Croix, St. Maarten, St. Lucia, Dominica, and St. Kitts.  We invited our sister and her husband to join us.  We had a wonderful time together.  The “vacation” was good therapy for me following my daughter Rachel’s 3-month ordeal in the hospital and rehab.   Rachel returned  home the day before we left for the cruise.  

One of the lecturers onboard the ship was Tom Vassos, who unveiled the infinite cosmos in which we are but a grain of sand.  His talks reminded me of the hymn:  “How big is God, how big and wide His vast domain.  To try to tell, these lips can only start.  He’s big enough to rule His mighty universe, yet small enough to live within my heart.”

Unto Us A Child Was Born

Merry Christmas to all who should happen to read this blog and a very Happy Birthday to our youngest son, Luke.  Some might say Luke was born “the day after Christmas” which sounds so anti-climatic and piddling.  And it just isn’t so!  There is nothing anti-climactic or piddling about Luke, in his birth, or in the journey he has traveled since.  Luke was born on the Second Day of Christmas!  Doesn’t that sound a whole lot better?  I think so.  

Luke posted the following on FB on March 24, 2024:

"Hey friends, I had my first colonoscopy a few weeks ago, followed by a cancer diagnosis the next day.  I had no symptoms, it was a routine screening.  It's been an absolutely surreal time, and I want to be clear that I can't answer questions about this because I just don't have much more information.  I've been scanned and poked, and that will continue over the next few weeks.  No treatment plan has been decided on yet, but it sounds like there will be chemo, radiation, and possibly surgery.  I'm not super comfortable sharing this, but it's what's happening and I think it's an important PSA."

Luke posted a "Cancer Update: on May 8, 2024:

"Two months ago, the day after my first colonoscopy, I was diagnosed with rectal cancer.  It was invasive cancer, they said, so they searched the rest of my body for signs of more cancer, and they found nothing.  Stage one.

The next step, they said, was to have surgery to remove a bunch of my insides where cancer might make a home for itself in the future.  I had already kicked off a second opinion at this point, and both providers recommended surgery.

And so I met with a surgeon at Mayo in Phoenix, who, instead of scheduling me for surgery like I expected, wanted to reassess everything up to this point, especially the biopsy that led to the original diagnosis.  This whole process lasted several agonizing weeks, but the end result feels miraculous:

No surgery needed, just an examination every three months.  And even better, the Mayo docs don't think I had invasive cancer in the first place.  Their opinion is that the first diagnosis was a mistake.  I had cancer, but not the kind that had already invaded my vascular system or lymph nodes."  

Unto us a child was born forty-seven years ago on this Second day of Christmas!  What a gift!  My “Dad’s Heart” is overwhelmed with gratitude and love for Luke today.